


Survivors

by orphan_account



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Blatant disregard for biology etc, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Explicit Consent, F/M, Family, Gen, Love Confessions, Love in the time of great suffering, Mild Smut, Murder, Nicknames, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sadness, Suffering, Survivor Guilt, Suspend your disbelief with me here, Team as Family, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12551376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When the escort calls for volunteers, silence persists. Of course. Who would step up and accept certain death for the sake of a smart but awkward girl who loves to cut up dead animals and rearrange their dry bones on the table outside her family's home? She's courting death, they used to say. / Temperance is not superstitious, but perhaps this once, they were right.





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> True story, I have an idea of what happens to almost everyone else in this AU, but the odds I'll write more aren't good. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

* * *

 

"Ladies first!"  
  
_You won't get reaped,_  Temperance tells herself as the escort dips her hand into the glass orb with the name of all the girls in District Three who are eligible for tribute.  _Angela didn't get reaped, and now she can't be. You're eighteen. You'll be fine. This is the last time you'll have to stand here like this. You won't get reaped._  
  
"Temperance Brennan!"  
  
Her name echoes off the buildings in the square, the escort's shrill voice ringing in her ears in the silence that follows the collective gasp of everyone gathered to watch. Off to the edges of the square, she thinks she hears Angela swear, but that's probably just her mind playing tricks on her, giving her something to hold onto as she leaves the group of girls aged eighteen through the path her fellows have made for her.  
  
When the escort calls for volunteers, silence persists. Of course. Who would step up and accept certain death for the sake of a smart but awkward girl who loves to cut up dead animals and rearrange their dry bones on the table outside her family's home? She's courting death, they used to say.  
  
Temperance is not superstitious, but perhaps this once, they were right.

 

* * *

  
  
The District Three mentors have only one rule: tributes are called by their last names only. Caroline, at least, is past caring what the tributes call her, but Booth, still so young, is as firm as ever about his given name remaining un-uttered until the day he dies. He used to be friends with Russ, and even before he came back a victor, calling him "Seeley" was taboo.  
  
No one ever asked why. It didn't matter.  
  
"I won't mind it if you stop calling me 'Bones,'" Temperance tells him on the train, after dark, when the others have gone off to sleep or lie awake in bed. "I never liked it anyway."  
  
Booth keeps his gaze on the dark sky beyond the window, on things she can't see and probably never will.  
  
"Too late to change that," he murmurs, shrugging. His two years of post-Games retirement have done nothing to sap the strength from his shoulders.  
  
With him and Russ around, she'd always felt safe. Now the only person from home she'll have available to rely on is a thin boy her age who spent half of dinner fiddling with a watch he pulled from his room's wall.  
  
"Okay," she sighs. "Then... I suppose I should sleep." If they're not going to strategize, then she won't pretend she stands a chance at surviving. "Good night—"  
  
"You can win this."  
  
She freezes in her seat, gripping the armrests tight. If she'd managed to stand up before he spoke, she'd be back in the armchair again anyway.  
  
"No I can't." Not against the Careers. She may be healthy and smart and relatively strong, but she hasn't spent her life training to win the Games. Even Christopher outclasses her as far as technical skills. "I'm not—"  
  
"That's good. Deny it if people talk you up. Play up your nerves, the fact that you've always been 'Russ's sister.' Just don't let yourself believe it."  
  
He's not looking at the window anymore, but he still hasn't looked at her. There's something sad on his face, softening the lines left by his scars, the ones he's acquired since coming back from the Capitol. They'd left his skin polished and perfect, and he'd gone and scratched it up again. She thinks she understands why—what's on a person's body says a lot about who they are.  
  
"I—" She stops, pursing her lips. What does she mean to say? "Christopher is smarter than I am."  
  
Booth shakes his head. "You're better rounded."  
  
"You don't know that."  
  
"I remember, Bones."  
  
She tenses at the nickname, gaze flicking down to the fancy carpet on the floor. When she was younger, she'd felt like he was picking on her, until she'd gotten used to the easy way he said it, the smile he gave whenever he used it. She hasn't grown to like it, but she remembers it well, even though they've barely crossed paths since he came home a victor.  
  
And now, hearing it for the first time in years, it wakes something in her that makes her want to believe he's right.  
  
"Oh." She tucks one foot behind an ankle, forcing herself to stay seated when her instinct is to bolt to her room until her heartbeat settles back to normal. Despite the sudden discomfort, she chances a glance at him and finds him looking straight at her.  
  
It doesn't last more than a few seconds, but she feels like they stare at each other for years.  
  
"We'll talk strategy tomorrow," he says, breaking their gaze as he stands. He seems so much taller than she remembered, and so powerful. It's no wonder he won his Games. "Get some rest."  
  
"Yes." She watches him disappear out of the car and waits a full five minutes before heading to her room, sliding the door shut with trembling fingers. Hours ago, she'd resigned herself to a quick death at the Cornucopia. Now, she wonders if she may in fact stand a chance.

 

* * *

  
  
Their costumes are made of reflective materials, hers a dress that makes her look gangly and frail, her fellow District Three tribute's a suit-and-slacks set that gives him an air of brilliant madness. Temperance goes with it, her big eyes wide as she takes in all the sights, gripping the front of the chariot tight like she's afraid she might fall.  
  
For all that she's become quieter over the years, she is not shy. She is also a terrible liar, but she knows how to move and stand so that she projects an image, or so she blends and goes ignored, a non-threat among her classmates—and, she hopes, a non-entity in the arena.  
  
Dinner in the suite is tense. Caroline keeps dragging her out of her thoughts, reminding her to eat in an irritated tone that almost completely hides the pity in her gaze. Christopher does not need such prompting, perfectly behaved in a way Temperance finds unnerving. It's like his costume seeped into him, warping his mind, giving him the angle he's going to use to try and win, or at least be memorable enough for a sponsor gift or two.  
  
He retreats to his room after dinner. Temperance doesn't try to stop him.  
  
"I don't like him," says Booth. He sits in the armchair next to her in the living room, where she's barefoot with her legs tucked up on the couch. "I don't trust him."  
  
"Can't trust anyone in these Games, _cher_ ," Caroline says with a shake of her head. "He's a strong contender, which means he's got an eye out for the chance to kill your favorite."  
  
"He's  _smug_ ," Booth says, and Temperance finds she's grateful he doesn't address Caroline's observation about who he's siding with. "I've seen it too often in Careers. He'll do well, but he could end up screwing himself over."  
  
"He made a toy helicopter at school once," Temperance remarks. "Remote controlled. It worked perfectly."  
  
"And you kicked Howard Epps's ass when you found him about to tear a bird's wing off," Booth reminds her, voice as sharp as his gaze.  
  
"So she's scrappy," Caroline says. "Not bad."  
  
"No. She's  _smart_."  
  
"Look, Booth, I'm not gonna fight you. I'm not even staying up to strategize tonight. The way I see it, our district's got a better than good shot at bringing a tribute back home with us, and  _that_  deserves a stiff drink and a good night's sleep." She holds up said drink and nods at them both. "But don't  _you_  drink, _cherie_. You've got training tomorrow. Don't throw away your chance to live, unless you're sure you wanna die."  
  
Caroline lowers her drink and walks off to her room. The suite feels massive without her, and Temperance feels like it might swallow her whole if not for Booth at her side.  
  
Several long seconds later, Booth breaks the silence.  
  
"Do you?"  
  
Temperance looks up at him, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "Do I what?"  
  
"Want to die."  
  
"Everyone dies eventua—"  
  
"In the arena, Bones."  
  
So much for holding his gaze. She shuts her eyes and takes a breath. "No. But—"  
  
"Then you won't."  
  
Her eyes fly open. "You can't promise that."  
  
"Tomorrow," he goes on as if she hadn't spoken at all, "learn survival skills first. Watch the other tributes and see what weapons they like. Make a mental list of which ones you think you'll be good at. We'll go over it when you come back and settle on one or two."  
  
He's talking faster than she'd like, breaking the illusion of safety that the suite creates, sending her mind into the beginnings of panic. All the while, his eyes only leave her for a moment at a time, anchoring her to the spot in a way that feels like she'll still be standing if this building collapses all around them.  
  
"Got it?"  
  
She lets out a breath she's been holding for too long, but there's still tension in her shoulders. Even so, she manages to nod. It doesn't seem like enough, so she adds, "Yes."  
  
He nods. "Now, go to bed. Rest well while you can."  
  
That's easier said than done, but she doesn't say as much, tucking her feet into her slippers and heading off, mind abuzz with thoughts of what awaits her tomorrow.

 

* * *

  
  
"Knife-throwing is a good choice," Booth tells her the following evening, after he's talked to Christopher about his strategy so he can stand a chance too. Temperance had thought Booth might ignore him completely, but as angry and resigned as he seems, Booth can't just let a person die.  
  
"I sense an 'except' coming," she says. She hopes she's wrong. Throwing knives will give her distance from opponents and the element of surprise, plus a better chance at close range. She knows where to cut a person to mortally wound them. Her father taught her how to prepare pigeons for stew, and she's watched enough Games in her short life to pick up a thing or two about the human body.  
  
" _Unless_  you lose track of your knives."  
  
She twists her lips in an angry, childish pout. "So you're saying I should learn something else."  
  
"I'm saying you need to keep track of your knives," he corrects her, and adds after a pause, " _and_  learn something else."  
  
"I have  _two days_  of training left, Booth. How am I going to—"  
  
"Every second you spend wondering if you can do something is a second you leave yourself open to attack." His voice is hard on the words, but his gaze is insistent, not closed off. A moment or two later, he continues. "Don't go for a heavy weapon. You're not built for that."  
  
"A bow and arrows?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"You can help me with it after training. That was your weapon in the Games."  
  
"So they might expect you to learn it." He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Do you remember how to throw a punch?"  
  
"Yes. I still think archery is a good idea."  
  
"Fine. Okay." He nods absently, and then with a breath he's on his feet, focused like he's ready to fight. "Come on, stand up. We can start on your stance."  
  
That's how the next two days go. Their escort complains about the pillows that get destroyed during post-dinner practice, but they continue to work on Temperance's aim and precision with knives. For archery, they build up her arm strength with lifting exercises.  
  
It's still surreal to her that this is happening, but it's good to have tasks, to train her mind to focus on the things she can control. Otherwise, she'll lose it and die for sure. How Christopher manages to keep it together is beyond her, but as Booth reminds her, she is her only concern.  
  
She earns a training score of nine despite herself, while Christopher gets a seven.  
  
"So we've got a brainiac and a fighter," Caroline remarks. "Congratulations, you two. We can get you sponsors for sure."  
  
For the first time since her name got called, Temperance feels she truly does stand a chance.

 

* * *

  
  
Interview day comes and goes so quickly she's not sure it actually happened, but her last night in the luxury of the suite finds her in a long, glittery dress and heavy makeup that makes her look mysterious and untouchable. In a way, Temperance likes the whole getup, so she stays in it through dinner and after everyone is in their rooms. That's when she slips back out into the dark living room, to memorize the way it looks with only the light from the city streets illuminating it.  
  
When she was little, her mother told her stories about the pictures in the stars. Temperance pictured the castles and furnishings like this, in shades of black and grey with glittering starlike crystals for decoration. Her dress and jewelry blend in with the image, and she twirls, a galaxy spinning amid the deep night sky. Not used to shoes with tall, tiny heels, she wobbles when she comes to a stop, giving a quiet giggle that fades into nothingness as a strong, familiar pair of hands gently grips her shoulders and steadies her.  
  
"Easy, Bones," says Booth, voice soft, like the room has drawn him into its kids' story spell too and he doesn't want to break it. "Now's not the time to twist an ankle."  
  
"I'm not scared," she says. It's not a lie. She's terrified, and she's sure he can see that when she turns and faces him.  
  
That's when she folds under the pressure, when she drops the pretense of steadiness and gives in and hugs him tight. He's not her brother, but his embrace is somehow familiar, a comfort she never wants to be without.  
  
"You can do this," he whispers, rubbing her back.  
  
"I don't want to." Her tears carve a trail through her makeup, doubtless staining his shirt. "I just want to go home."  
  
"I know. Trust me, I know. But you can do this. I'll help you from outside."  
  
"Please—"  
  
"I promise." He kisses her temple and leans his head against hers. "Trust me. Even when you feel alone in the arena, I'm on your side. I'm with you."  
  
"Please let me stay with you tonight." It's against the rules, but she doesn't care. She doesn't want anything more than to stay beside him while she still can, and perhaps feel calm enough to fall asleep. " _Please_. I don't want to be alone."  
  
"Yeah, of course." He pulls away and searches her face for who knows what, his own expression caught between small grin and grimace. "Get comfortable first. Wash your face," he says, brushing tearstains and makeup off her cheek with a thumb. "I'm right here."  
  
Nodding, she steps out of her shoes, then picks them up, and goes to her room for a shower.

 

* * *

 

"Why don't you call me 'Temperance'?"  
  
She's traded her dress for a cotton shirt and pair of pants, and she lies at his side, her head on his shoulder and a hand on his chest as he holds her.  
  
"Really?" He snickers. "You were always playing with animal bones."  
  
"No, I know that. I meant— you've never called me by my name. Why?"  
  
"'Bones' suits you."  
  
"No it doesn't. I don't even like it."  
  
"I just think— it's a nice name, I like it, but it's so big. 'Temperance.' That's like calling me 'Courage' or 'Wisdom.' It's a lot of pressure."  
  
"I don't think it is." She sighs, spreading her fingers over his shirt as his heart beats through the fabric and skin and bone beneath her palm. "I call you 'Booth' because you ask me to."  
  
"Okay, how about you tell me why you won't let anyone but me call you 'Bones.'"  
  
"Because I don't like it."  
  
"No, no. If that were it, you wouldn't let me call you that, but you do, even though you don't like it."  
  
"Well—"  
  
"Why is it okay if I call you 'Bones,' Bones?"  
  
This is it, peak ridiculousness. She laughs, the Games forgotten for the moment. It's all too short, though, and when it passes, she shuts her eyes and thinks it over, breathing slow and deep when he starts to stroke her back.  
  
"I don't know," she answers. "I guess— because it's you. Because it's... ours."  
  
"Exactly." He turns his head, kisses her forehead. "It's our thing."  
  
Warmth swells in her chest. Her smile is gone, as if even that will shatter what they've woven together. "I like that we have a  _thing_ ," she murmurs. "I think I always have."  
  
"Me too, Bones."  
  
It wasn't her intention to do more than sleep at his side, but when the threat of death looms just over the horizon, it's hard to find reasons not to follow impulses like this. So even though in a perfect world they'd explore this more before arriving here, she lifts herself up, meets his gaze for any sign that she should desist, and when she finds none, kisses him.  
  
This too makes the world outside the room fade away. It's far from her first kiss, but it's still new, so she drinks it in with the same fervor she would most anything else. Slow and reverent, deep and intense, one kiss melts into another until she forgets that less than twenty-four hours from now, she'll be in the arena with twenty-three other people, fighting to be the last one standing. Here with Booth, the only thing that awaits her is life, the feel of tongue and lips, teeth and hands, at a pace she sets and within boundaries she draws.  
  
It's so much less than they  _could_  have, but it's all she can stand to give and take. It's enough to know that they're together in this, like they're together in the hope she'll survive the long trial that awaits her.  
  
She falls asleep at his side, to his reassurances that he's got her back, and dreams of being home.

 

* * *

  
  
Booth wakes her in the morning, minutes before sunrise.  
  
"I hoped this was a nightmare," she murmurs, squinting against the sunlight, rolling her shoulders as she sits up.  
  
"It is," he tells her, sitting up and tucking some of her hair behind her ear. "It's just got a ways to go before it's over."  
  
"So this is it. This is good-bye."  
  
"It's 'see you in a few weeks.'"  
  
"I'll do my best." It's quiet and small, which is just the way she feels, as little as the boy from District Ten this year, barely eleven and brought here to die. "Thank you for helping me train."  
  
"Just—" He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, and she knows right away he's remembering being in her place only two years ago. "Stay focused. As long as your head is clear, you'll know what to do."  
  
"I will."  
  
Once she's ready to leave with her stylist, Temperance hugs her friend and mentor and perhaps more still.  
  
"Don't trust Pelant," he tells her when they part. "Don't trust  _anyone_ , but especially not him."  
  
Temperance doesn't do intuition, but she does trust Booth, so she nods, tells him "I won't," and smiles. "See you in a few weeks."  
  
She leaves in a plain tunic, her stylist completing the rest of the pre-Games journey with her. There's a final meal and a few last words, and then she steps into the tube and is lifted above ground, where the countdown to a long, bloody nightmare begins.


	2. During

* * *

 

Day 1  
  
The Cornucopia is set in the middle of a wide grassland prairie ringed by shrubs and towering mountains. With no way to truly orient herself—the arena is a world all its own, and the Gamemakers are the cruel gods who control it—Temperance decides that the mouth of the great horn faces south, and its tail points north. That means that the flat expanse she catches a glimpse of, perhaps desert wasteland, is to the northeast. East is all grey, craggy rocks. Behind her, to the west, there are slim trees that look like pine. South appears to hold the most promise, with high hills and bright green grass. That's where everyone will want to go, so she sets her sights on the mountains in the north. From there, she can trek westward, where the trees promise a water source.  
  
Before that, she'll need to survive the initial bloodbath. Booth told her and Pelant to run away from the Cornucopia, but she wants a weapon. The best supplies and tools are inside the horn, but she spots a pocket knife a few yards away, and  _something_  is better than nothing at all. A little beyond it is a small and frankly inconvenient bag, striped with reflective fabric and with a strap that looks like it could fit around her waist at best. Tiny things, both of them, probably of good enough quality to last her a few days. And she wants them.  
  
The timer hits zero and the gong sounds, and she keeps her body low as she darts forward. She scoops the bag out from under another tribute's hand, skidding as she turns and goes for the knife. She spares half a second to be surprised that no one took it while she went for the bag, but once the thought is gone, she picks it up and runs hard, heading north.  
  
The clanging of weapons, cries of rage, and pained screams follow her between and around pillars of rock, under stone bridges and sharp, jutting crags, over pointy and smooth pebbles that line the packed dirt that is her path. There's no time to regret her choice, to think she's an easy target. Right now, the others are fleeing or fighting, so she's as safe as she can be. She expects to witness rockslides the next few days, expects at least one tribute to be crushed to death. The terrain in the mountains seems like it was built for that.  
  
Water runs downhill, but springs can burst forth higher up. Her parents told her about Sunday strolls in the mountains of District Three, and the freshwater streams they used to come across and soak their feet in. There's more than one water source here, at least to start with. There are plenty of places for shelter too, since the crowds in the Capitol will be sated by the action on day one and will need a few days to process their excitement and place new bets.  
  
She's long since lost view of the Cornucopia when the cannon goes off. Six deaths. The Careers must be happy, quietly plotting how to betray their allies. Temperance pushes forward for another ten minutes before she spots what looks like shelter beneath an outcropping.  
  
The climb isn't too hard. She's starting off strong and well fed, the extra training serving her well as she pulls herself up to the would-be cave. The space is big enough for her and a filled-up backpack. It won't be warm, the stone wall chilly against her back as she sits and stretches her limbs, but it gives her a panoramic view of the north edge of the arena.  
  
Desert wasteland, just like she'd guessed. There will be food sources out there but no cover from attackers or the elements. Some plants store water, so it's a last resort if all else fails.  
  
With only the wind for company, she examines her loot. The knife is clean and sharp, good for maybe a few animal kills or one well-placed stab to another person. It's not a throwing knife, but it's small enough that she can surprise someone with it. The small pack she'll wear clipped around her waist like she thought, tucked under her jacket to keep it from giving her away to the other tributes. Inside she finds a slim foil pack with several strips of dried meat, a flask with about a cup's worth of bleach, and a camera. Perhaps another tribute might throw that last item away in frustration, but her lessons in the training center taught her that the lens can focus light and allow her to start a fire. The rest of it she'll find a use for, she's sure.  
  
Zipping the bag shut, she peeks out from her little shelter and looks west. Evergreens start to cover the upward slope of the terrain just beyond the mountain she's on. It's hard to judge distance, but she thinks she can make it before dark. The trick will be getting there without being seen.  
  
If she leaves now, she can afford to go slower than her pace was on the way out here. Now that she knows this tiny alcove exists, she'll remember it. Her good memory is an asset here that she fully intends to exploit.  
  
By the time she reaches the evergreen grove, it's past sunset and getting cold. The branches sway in the wind, hiding the quiet sound of her footsteps as she looks for a place to sleep. Above ground would be best. If not for the likelihood of a chilly night, she would've stayed on the mountain. As it is, she finds a tree growing close to the sheer cliff face that surely means the perimeter of the arena and shuffles her way up with wood and stone at either side of her. The second lowest branch she finds stretches out onto a flat surface on the rock, like a step in an impossibly huge staircase. The pine needles, bountiful both green on the branch and dead on the stone, provide warmth. Tomorrow, she'll resume her search for water. Tonight, after the dead get listed in the sky, she sleeps.

 

* * *

  
  
Day 2  
  
Cannon fire wakes her about a half hour before dawn—two booms. The Careers must have been hunting all night, confident that nothing and no one can hurt them this early in the Games. Temperance lies still in her improvised bed, listening for footsteps or laughter or screaming. Five, ten, fifteen minutes of silence go by, and just as she's about to get up, a swift, regular thudding breaks the early morning calm.  
  
It grows louder and draws nearer. She peers through a tiny space between little branches in time to watch a small herd of heavy bovine-like animals thunder past through the grove. They're bigger than anything she's ever seen, their shapes made more massive by the dim light. What are they running from? Her first guess is a predator, which could easily include the Careers. It could also be a Gamemaker's machination that causes them to move. Either way, they're gone as fast as they came, heading north to the plain between the desert and the grove. Strange, since she'd seen no water there, but they know better than a human whose main objective is survival.  
  
The second day is spent exploring. Her search rewards her with a sizeable cavern hidden behind a slab of rock, where enough sunlight slips through the cracks for her to start a small fire, and where there's a stream of running water. She guts half of her camera, seals any cracks shut over the fire, and finds herself with a container to hold about a cup of water in. A single drop of bleach purifies it after a half hour wait just in case, and she has her first bite of food and drink of water in the arena.  
  
She spends the night in the cavern, the fire put out, with branches and pine needles from outside for a mattress and blanket.

 

* * *

  
  
Day 3  
  
The herd thunders by again, earlier today because her cavern is farther south than her first night's bed. That means this is their routine and not a sign of where the Careers may be, which is both good and bad. With only eight deaths so far, the Games are hardly over.  
  
She clears out any sign of her fire and bed before heading out, all but sealing the cavern shut behind her with the rock slab, and sets out again.  
  
Around noon, the sky grows dark, and rain starts to fall. She climbs the mountainside, high enough to get a view of where the Cornucopia should be, where the Careers' camp probably is. Sure enough, a tank of a boy tribute guards the horn, spear in hand. She's too far to get a good read on him, but she remembers the weapon he favors and the way he moves, and his height against that of the horn confirms it's Boy 2.  
  
He may be strong, but she can outsmart him, find a way to slip past and grab a better knife. She's sure there's a camera on her, fairly positive she's on screens across Panem, hair damp from the rain, face dirty after two nights sleeping on the ground. She swears she feels Booth's eyes on her, swears she hears him saying under his breath that she's doing well so far. It's not enough yet for a sponsor gift, but it's helping him build a case for her. If she lets the audience in on part of the plan she's barely begun making, she'll look even better.  
  
"You have knives, don't you," she murmurs, watching Boy 2 swing his spear as he paces back and forth in front of the mouth of the horn. "I want them. I'm going to take them."  
  
She turns and heads back down below the treetops, staying up on the mountain for as long as she's able. Without only the small pocket knife to attack with, she's a moving target at best, but at least her opponents won't think to look up for tributes to kill.  
  
If she's going to make it to the Cornucopia, she needs to eat and hydrate, so she makes the quick trip back to the cavern, triple checking to make sure she's alone before she slips back inside. Just before she pulls the slab over the entrance, a silver patachute drops a bottle right outside. She grabs it with a smile. An empty container to carry water in. Perfect. Now she's not chained to a small section of arena close to this little haven.  
  
The early afternoon is spent making preparations. In her small bag, she keeps the water and bleach, leaving the other provisions tucked in a nook in the cavern. The sun has begun its descent when she heads outside again, creeping along the mountain, below the tree line. She continues forming a plan as she makes slow progress toward the Cornucopia.  
  
The Careers may depend on their strength, but it would be stupid not to think the they haven't set traps around the horn. Things to warm them, at least. If she had a good weapon, she might be able to take the boy out from afar, but as it is, she'll have to get creative. That's always been Angela's thing, though. She dreams up schemes, and Temperance builds the schematics. Her talent will go toward teaching schoolchildren, but it could be more if only they weren't District people, sentenced to serve the Capitol for their ancestors' audacity in starting a rebellion all those years ago.  
  
What would Angela do if she were in the arena? Lay a trap, probably. Create a diversion so the horn goes unguarded long enough for her to get what she needs and be gone before they're back.  
  
That could work, if only Temperance could think of a distraction that won't somehow give away her location.  
  
She stops by a spindly shrub growing out from between two large rocks and scans everything around her. She's still unseen, it looks like. Raiding the Cornucopia today is out of the question, but scouting is just as important. She notes the time the guard changes, two Careers coming up from the south to join Boy 2. One of them goes in the horn and doesn't come out, then Boy 2 follows. The remaining tribute is Girl 1, fierce with a mace, which the Gamemakers so graciously provided her with.  
  
Temperance has her work cut out for her.  
  
She makes to start heading back when from below and to the east of her, there's the sound of rocks falling. A scream follows, then the thudding of rock hitting ground. She freezes, keeping low as the Career guard calls to her allies. There's pointing and what looks like arguing, and then the cannon goes off.  
  
The freshly fallen tribute may have good supplies on them, but she can't risk checking when two of the Careers are on their way over. It'll take them a few minutes yet to get to the body, so she flees while she can, back the way she came, looking over her shoulder every few steps until she's in the little cavern again, with fresh pine needles to sleep on and under, safe behind the slab of rock.

 

* * *

  
Day 4  
  
When the herd wakes her up, she washes her face in the stream. The cavern mouth is in the shadow of the mountain right now, so she can't make a fire to warm herself with. Bathing and washing her clothes will have to wait until later, if she can even come back here at all.  
  
If she had weapons, she could try to take down a member of the herd. She's down to one last strip of dried meat after she has a meager breakfast, and even though she's starting to get used to one small meal a day, she can't just go without and expect to survive. She told Booth she'd do her best to make it out alive, and she intends to stand by her word.  
  
This time she heads north along the mountain. Half an hour into her trek, a guttural snarl makes her stop short and hold her breath.  
  
Down below, a mountain lion stalks prey that Temperance can't see at first. Then a twig snaps, giving away its position.  
  
Boy 7, whose wide-eyed, bruised face she only gets a glimpse of before the mountain lion pounces.  
  
She shuts her eyes tight and stays still, but there's nothing to drown out the sounds, the way flesh tears and bone snaps, how the tribute's cries quickly turn to strangled sobs, the quiet that falls when the tribute loses consciousness and takes his last, gurgling breaths, how the cannon booms to signal the end.  
  
It's another full minute before she opens her eyes and chances a look at the boy's corpse. The mountain lion is gone, soundless through the grove. It might come back for her, or it might have only wanted one kill today, but either way, it gave her an opportunity. Even from here, she can see the boy was carrying a hunting knife. It lies at his side, bloody and forgotten. She can slide down the rock face and take it, then climb back up after backtracking on the ground for a minute or two.  
  
The grove falls eerily silent, and she makes her decision, sliding down, breaking into a run the moment her feet hit the ground. She grabs the knife and darts out of the way of the large metal claw that comes to recover the body, then stands by and watches the mangled, bloody mess disappear into a shuttle that cloaks itself once its bay doors are shut. All those years inspecting dead animals didn't prepare her to see someone mauled to death, but they took away the shock of seeing a corpse. A human is physically no different from an animal, even though she knows they deserve a marked grave to honor their memory.  
  
The wind resumes, and she heads back to the nearest place she can climb up to the narrow but elevated path on the rock wall. On the way, she looks for chances to practice with her new knife. A bird, a squirrel, a snake, she doesn't care. Anything to take her mind off witnessing what she did, to make her feel like she has something under control.  
  
She's almost to the cavern when a squirrel scampers down a branch and towards the tree trunk. She steadies herself against the rock wall, aims the way Booth taught her, and flings the knife at the tree. She hits her mark, the knife going between the squirrel's forelegs, pinning it with its stomach to the trunk. Retrieving it takes a leap toward the branch, and a firm grip as she grabs on and moves hand over hand until her feet find purchase against the bark. She pockets the knife and squirrel and heads back to the cavern, where she lights a fire, cleans her kill, and cooks the meat.  
  
The rest of the afternoon is spend portioning out the meat, cleaning her knife and bag, and bathing for the first time in days.

 

* * *

 

Days 5-10  
  
The next four or five days go by without incident. The herd runs past in the morning, and Temperance starts her day with water and meat, and spends the rest of it scouting. On what by her count is the tenth day, her water source runs dry. The audience is bored, and the Gamemakers want her to move on. Rather than see her hideout completely destroyed, she does as silently asked.  
  
She climbs up the mountain and past an alcove she found a few days earlier, sticking to the paths she has memorized over the last few days. She needs whatever advantage she can get, because with only two deaths since the day the mountain lion mauled that boy, something big is bound to happen soon.  
  
At noon, lightning from the clear blue sky strikes a mountain peak. She takes cover in a shallow groove in the rock, covering her head with her arms as the artificial lightning sends rocks tumbling down the mountain for the next several hours. When it stops, the air is quiet and still, and it's not until nightfall that the cannon sounds and a face appears in the sky.  
  
It's a cold night in the mountains, without the cover of pine needles, but she endures in the dark, thinking of the countless nights spent huddled against her father back home, and the luxury of her last night in the District Three suite in the Capitol.

 

* * *

  
  
Day 13  
  
An earthquake rocks the arena on the morning of day thirteen, but no one dies, and Temperance chars a cricket in sunlight focused through her camera lens, eating it in one bite before she moves into the barren, rocky east side of the arena.

 

* * *

  
Day 16  
  
She's had a few narrow escapes from other tributes by now. No Careers, but still some willing to fight her. She should fight back, she knows, but she doesn't think she has the stomach for it. It's one thing to watch someone be killed. It's another one altogether to be their killer.  
  
Today she decides the green hills of the south are going to spit out something monstrous at the remaining tributes, so she moves northward and watches the change of guard at the Cornucopia and stalks across the plain, starting from where the mountains turn to lifeless grey rocks.  
  
The area isn't booby trapped. They aren't expecting any of the others to come in from anywhere but the front of the horn. Twelve tributes left, three of them Careers. They could easily take the other nine down even if they're ambushed, but one silent, stealthy tribute stands a better chance.  
  
She peeks around the mouth of the horn when Boy 2's heavy footsteps have been gone for a few minutes and spies the bottom of his spear resting on the ground on the other side of the Cornucopia. He's leaning against the metal horn, around the other side, where he can't see her, cocky and careless after two weeks of no attempted raids. Leaning further out from behind her cover, she looks into the place where the Games began and spies their hoard. Clean weapons neatly laid out for the taking, crates of food, large containers of water. There's a set of gleaming knives on one of the crates. Nodding, she smirks a little for the camera and takes a few quiet, tiptoeing steps forward.  
  
" _Gotcha._ "  
  
Boy 2 would've had her then and there if he'd kept his mouth shut, but as it is, Temperance gets a fighting chance. She's smaller and faster, weaving away from his first few punches. He gets her in the shoulder once, and she kicks him hard in the shin. That distracts him long enough for her to throw a punch to his jaw. It connects, but she regrets it as she feels her skin split open over her knuckles. Before he regains his bearings, she goes for the knives. They're only inches away from her fingers when he yanks hard on her ankle.  
  
Balance thrown, she falls, bouncing off the crate with her side. The air gets knocked out of her when she hits the ground, and Boy 2 pins her with ease.  
  
"Damn," he says through panting and laughter. "You're not bad! Should've allied with you instead."  
  
She struggles beneath him, but he just pushes down harder on her back with his knee.  
  
"Tell you what," he says. "I'll make it quick. You've earned it. I'll even do it with these knives you wanted so badly. Kind of like I'm giving them to you."  
  
"You're so poetic," she all but growls.  
  
"I aim to please, Girl 3."  
  
As he reaches for a knife, she grits her teeth and forces herself to think. There's no way out of this, but desperation doesn't understand reason. She looks up, as if some miracle might save her if she just spots it.  
  
A cannon fires, and Boy 2 shifts to look west, where his fellow Careers had gone off not long ago.  
  
"Huh," he says. "It's a good day in the--"  
  
And his sentence gets finished in a choked, bloody groan. He topples over and onto the ground beside her.  
  
Temperance scrambles to her feet and grabs one of the knives on the crate, and as the cannon for Boy 2 goes off, she locks eyes with the only familiar face there is in the arena.  
  
"It's me!" he says, dropping the bloody spear and raising his hands in surrender. "Temperance, it's me. It's Christopher."  
  
"I know." The one person Booth warned her against. "And you just—"  
  
"Saved your life, yeah." He laughs and shakes his head. "Grab what you want and let's get out of here before the others come back."  
  
There's no time to ask questions. She takes the set of knives, tucks it into her jacket, and picks up the one Boy 2 dropped, slipping it into place with the others. Then she finds a mud-brown backpack full of food and water, zips it shut, and slips it on.  
  
"North," Pelant tells her. He's wearing a backpack too, and he's holding a hammer. "They won't look north. Come on."  
  
She should run east again, but right now she banks on Pelant valuing his life too much to lead her into an ambush. And if he does— well, she'll deal with that if it happens. For now, she avoids stepping in Boy 2's blood and darts off behind Pelant and into the mountains.

 

* * *

  
  
"Why should I trust you?"  
  
They've come to a stop deep in the mountains, where a spring bubbles up from a pedestal of flat, cylindrical rocks. It's quiet aside from the trickling water, so Temperance asks what's been on her mind for hours now.  
  
"I just saved your life," answers Pelant, shrugging off his backpack and setting it at his feet. "I could've let you die back there and killed Boy 2 and made off just as well."  
  
"And you could've just wanted me to carry another backpack's worth of supplies for you." She takes off her backpack too, clenching her jaw against the pain that flares in her side. "How did you even know where to find me?"  
  
"Kinda hard to miss someone strolling across an open field."  
  
Okay, he has her there, but she keeps her eyes narrowed and her shoulders back. If she has cracks in her ribs, there's not much she can do for herself anyway aside from resting, and that's a luxury she can't afford. Showing that she's hurt is a sure way to get killed.  
  
Pelant sighs. "Listen, I get it. You're Booth and Caroline's favorite, and one or both of us will die here. But I've been looking for you from the start. You're really good at hiding, though. I only spotted you when you were crossing the mountains last week, and I lost track of you again."  
  
"You  _what_?" Her stomach twists, and Booth's warning rings through her head again. "Why?"  
  
"I figured we could help each other out for a while." He shrugs. "We can at least take out the rest of the Careers. Thin out the herd—"  
  
"We're not a herd," she snaps. "We're not  _animals_."  
  
"Right." He gives a short, bitter laugh. "Just cattle for the slaughter. But fine," he adds when her glare hardens. "We take out the Careers, maybe one or two others, and then we part ways. We're both in the final eight."  
  
She's still holding one of the straps of her backpack, and when he leaves off there, she grips it tight. It's foolish to think she won't kill anyone by the time this is over. The real question is, will the people she kills die because they've attacked her or because she decided to hunt them?  
  
"What do you say?" Pelant prompts her, casual, like they're not discussing human lives.  
  
Before she left the suite, Booth had told her not to trust Pelant. If they're on screen right now, he's probably repeating his warning like a prayer.  _Don't trust Pelant. Don't trust Pelant._  She doesn't trust him, but she may be able to get something out of this. Every tribute that dies brings this year's Games closer to the end, and she wants more than anything for this to be over.  
  
"Okay," she tells Pelant, nodding. "Until the final eight."  
  
He nods back and smiles, like this really is just a game. It's just as unnerving as it was in the suite.  
  
And just like then, she intends to keep her distance.

 

* * *

  
  
They agree to meet back by the spring in a few hours. Since they'll ultimately be opponents again, sharing everything is a bad idea. Temperance takes the time to sort through her backpack. She eats something that looks like a pastry but is dense and chewy, washing it down with water from the spring. Whatever it was tasted awful but was packed with nutrients, so when she goes back to the spring, she's ready for action.  
  
"I rigged a trap," he says, nodding down the path that brought them here in the first place. "I figure we lure the Careers here and have one of them trip it."  
  
"And the other one?"  
  
He grins, amused. It looks all wrong. "Well, I can't do  _all_  the work, can I?"  
  
She purses her lips. "A knife to the throat."  
  
"Or the heart, or anywhere else that'll make them bleed to death quick. Or slow, if you'd rather—"  
  
"I know where to knife someone." She may have to kill, but she won't take pleasure in it. This is survival, not murder. "Now?"  
  
"Tomorrow morning. We've done enough for one day. Sleep well, Temperance."  
  
She hides the shiver that sends through her, only nodding in response before she heads off to find someplace to sleep.

 

* * *

  
  
Day 17  
  
Aside from the ribs she likely cracked the day before, this is the best she's felt in days. The hike back to the spring is short and easy, and she has enough time to refill her water bottle and wash her face before her temporary ally shows up.  
  
The plan is simple. Since Pelant has been in this area longer and is the one who set the trap, he'll draw the Careers in, while Temperance lies in wait on higher ground, hunting knife at the ready. Halfway to the edge of the mountain range, he sets a small fire that belches black smoke, and at noon, he comes running back into their rendezvous point.  
  
The trap gets tripped, and the tribute is pulled into the air, swinging thanks to their forward momentum. They hit the nearest rock wall on the way up, struggling against their binds. By the time they still, Pelant has climbed to where the trap hangs from. He undoes the knot on the rope, and the tribute falls, snapping their neck on impact. The cannon booms.  
  
"Nine left," Pelant says proudly as he pulls apart the rope trap.  
  
Across from him, Temperance helps, but not with the knives. There's no sense in cutting up perfectly good rope. She's the one who finds the tribute's face, and immediately recognizes him.  
  
"This is Boy 10."  
  
"It's one less tribute," Pelant corrects her.  
  
"He was  _eleven years old_."  
  
"He died quick, though, didn't he? It's better than getting his head bashed in by Girl 1's mace."  
  
She shakes her head and leans back, away from the body. "We should lay him out somewhere easy for the hovercraft to take."  
  
"You're right. That'll draw someone else closer."  
  
"Yeah." She sighs. If it hadn't been this boy, she might not feel so sick, or that's what she tells herself as she and her ally take the body up to an exposed expanse of rock.

 

* * *

  
  
Day 18  
  
The next day they move to another location, where Temperance plays bait by screaming like she's in danger. Simplistic and definitely dangerous, but effective. She heads down the mountain until the Cornucopia is in view, and when the two Careers see her, one of them gives chase. Boy 1, by the looks of it.  
  
Boy 1 dies like Boy 10 does, and once again they move the body out somewhere more accessible. They walk back together, Pelant with a smirk still on his face, Temperance frowning against the glare of the sun off the light grey stone.  
  
"Only eight left," she remarks. "One Career. Do you want to take her out or walk away now?"  
  
They've passed their second trap by now and made their way around to the north side of the mountain range, where there's shade and a cool breeze and a view of the wasteland to the north.  
  
"I think we can part ways now," he says.  
  
And before she can respond, something hits her across the head, and she blacks out.

 

* * *

  
  
A cannon's boom wakes her in the evening. There's a lump on the side of her head that's pounding dully, but beyond that, nothing hurts. Nothing _needs_ to hurt, because aside from the slivers of light peeking in through cracks in the rocks above her, she has no way of getting out of this pit.  
  
The rock formations on the north side of the mountain range feature quite a few potential traps like this, but nothing covered, which means there was human intervention here. The last thing she remembers is Pelant agreeing to end their alliance, and then someone, not him, smashing a rock against the side of her head.  
  
"He planned this from the start," she breathes, gingerly feeling the lump on her head. "And I fell for it. I'm sorry, Booth."  
  
If she stays here, she'll die of dehydration within a few days. Pelant and his true ally took the flimsy pocket knife and the belt of knives she got from the Cornucopia, but lucky for Temperance, they missed the one she got from the tribute that got mauled in the grove. Not that it'll help her much, she thinks as she pulls it out of her boot, but it's better than nothing.  
  
The top of the pit is a good three feet too high for her, and the rocks that make up the enclosure are too smooth to try climbing, too hard to dig her knife into and try pulling herself up with. After making one round in the pit, she tilts her head back and looks through one of the cracks overhead, getting a glimpse of the grey sky before a shadow covers it.  
  
A laugh comes in from above. "Hi, Temperance."  
  
Temperance narrows her eyes. "Pelant's ally."  
  
"Yeah," the voice answers. "My name is Heather. I'm from District Ten."  
  
"I don't care. You did this to me."  
  
"It was his idea. See, he figured  _you're_  his toughest opponent here and it'd be good for both of us if we took you out. We knew we couldn't beat you in a fight, but then I said, 'You know what, Boy 3? My dad buries cow remains when they're done getting meat off them for the Capitol's food. We can just put her in a grave and leave her to die.'" Heather pauses, chuckling. "The Gamemakers made it easy for me. All I had to do was find the rocks to cover the hole with."  
  
"And now you're here to gloat." Temperance sets her jaw. "To see your handiwork."  
  
"You're like a tiger in a cage right now," says Heather. "Deadly but trapped. I'm proud of catching you. Sure, Pelant put you on a silver platter for me, but I could've done it alone."  
  
"Don't bet on it."  
  
"Tough talk from the girl who's buried alive."  
  
"I'm not dead yet, Heather. I'll find a way out of this. You'll be sorry."  
  
Heather laughs, the sound ringing in the small space of the stone pit. "Then I wish you good luck. I may or may not come back to see you. You're not a priority, though. I have six other tributes to kill. Have fun down there!"  
  
She leaves with a laugh, and once the ugly sound is gone, Temperance starts another round of the pit. She will find a way out of here. This is not where she dies.

 

* * *

 

Day 20  
  
It's not until two days and three deaths later (five left, she reminds herself) that Temperance is able to escape.  
  
Dehydration is starting to take its toll, but she has kept the desperation at bay by using her knife to chip away at the smooth surfaces in a corner formed by two of the stones that are her prison. She has just enough rough patches of stone now equally spaced apart so she can climb up and stay there long enough to reach the rocks overhead. After a few attempts at this, she's up and able to push one, grunting hard with the effort. She feels it budge, the small victory giving her a burst of strength. Stone grinds against stone, slow but steady.  
  
Then the cannon goes off, startling her. She ends up pushing the stone hard enough that it rolls away, and losing purchase on the rock wall. With nothing to grab onto, she falls on the ground. Overhead, their balance upset, some of the rocks slide down the mountain, and the rest tumble into the pit. She stays by the edge she climbed up on, covering her head, but she's too late tucking her legs in. One of the rocks slams onto her foot, and she feels the unmistakable crack of bones breaking.  
  
She bites her lip so hard she draws blood, but it stifles the cry she wants to give and knows she shouldn't. The pain will get worse before it gets better, so it's best to act fast.  
  
Breathing heavily, she puts her good foot against the rock that caught her and pushes it away, freeing her pant leg from beneath it. Even moving her leg sends pain shooting upwards from her foot, but she bears it. She needs to see the damage. Grabbing her knife from where she'd wedged it between the rocks that form the wall, she cuts the laces on her boot and slices into the sturdy leather. Then she peels the leather off and cuts her bloodied sock. The frayed edges catch on where bone tore through her skin, but she grits her teeth and bears it.  
  
Despite her best efforts, once she sees the extent of the damage, she lets out a shaky wail. She has no idea how far she is from where she left her backpack, and she only has one knife to defend herself with now. How is she supposed to win like this? She knows pain, sure, but this is so far beyond what she's used to that it takes her a few long minutes to collect herself. Overhead, the wind howls, and she hopes it drowns out her pained cries rather than carrying them to another tribute.  
  
"Okay," she tells herself in a shaky, breathy voice. "Okay. You've got this. Set the bone. Set the bone."  
  
She puts the handle of her knife in her mouth to bite down on, shuts her eyes tight, and feels for the broken bone. Just her fingers ghosting over the wound is agony, but it has to be done now or she'll never stand a chance. Three deep breaths, then she pushes down. The sounds are almost as bad as the blinding pain that follows, but even through the haze and the sudden wave of nausea, she can feel the worst of the pressure is gone.  
  
She doesn't fight back when she gets sick, dropping the knife and twisting to throw up bile on the ground. If this is all that happens to her after what she just did, then she's glad.  
  
It'll be another few minutes before she feels well enough to try to stand, so she grabs her knife and leans back against one of the stone walls, breathing slow and deep through the haze of what feels like a million bee stings in her foot. Seconds after she shuts her eyes, a metallic clanking on the nearby rocks snaps her to alertness. A sponsor gift this late in the Games is so expensive she can't even imagine the cost, but money is the furthest thing from her mind now. She reaches for it, prying it open with the knife. Inside the container is a small spray bottle and a note that reads  _FOR BONES_.  
  
"Medicine." She manages a weak laugh. "For me and my bones."  
  
She tucks the note in her good boot and sprays her injury with the medicine. Almost immediately, the pain goes away, replaced by a cool, numb sensation where the break is.  
  
The Capitol's technology is as good as magic to her, but she isn't expecting a miracle. She gives the medicine one hour to do its work, slips the slim bottle in her boot, and then uses the rocks that almost killed her to climb out of the pit.

 

* * *

  
  
Day 21  
  
Heather and Pelant never found her backpack, so the next day, Temperance is fed, hydrated, rested, and angry. Her injured foot is worlds better, only slightly swollen and tender, and her ribs, which she sprayed last night, are as good as new.  
  
She looks for animals on her way around the mountain. The grove yields a raccoon that she kills in one shot, but rather than cook and eat it, she backtracks to a small spring she'd passed and guts it there, throwing all its flesh and muscle downstream and washing the bones until they're pristine. She snaps off the longest bones and sharpens their ends, then ties the large, makeshift pins to some sticks brought from where she made her kill. Improvised spears make for a better defense than nothing, and though they won't go far if she throws them, they'll pierce skin with ease from up close.  
  
Satisfied with her work, she heads up the mountain until she can see down into the place where Pelant's trap killed Boy 10. Since he thinks she's as good as dead, he probably comes back here now, with or without his ally. He isn't there now, though, so Temperance lies in wait. If there's one thing she can be grateful to Heather for, it's the lesson in patience that two days in a stone pit taught her.

 

* * *

  
  
He lights a small fire at nightfall and eats nuts from his backpack, unaware that he's in his enemy's sights.  
  
Temperance is slow and careful as she moves in closer, leading with her injured, naked foot so she's not tempted to rush. This is definitely on all screens in the country right now, and she's got crowds cheering for her, she's sure. None of what she does, however, is for show. This is payback.  
  
Pelant puts out the fire and pulls out the blanket from the backpack, one whose warmth she'd been without when she'd been entombed. Soon, he'll wrap himself up in it, hiding all the places where his heartbeat pulses closest to his skin. Her aim won't be as good with the bone spears, but she has to take the chance while she has it. She holds a short spear steady, pulls her arm back, and launches it down with all her strength.  
  
He gives a sharp cry when the tip pierces his skin, slicing open a tear in the back of his head. He turns to where it came from, but by then she's ducked behind her perch.  
  
She hears him swear under his breath, and when she peers over the edge of the stone, she sees him grab the spear and turn it over in his hand.  
  
"Bone?" He laughs. And then, raising his voice, "Very subtle, Temperance. Come down here. Let's talk. How did you manage to get out? I'm  _very_ impressed."  
  
Without the element of surprise on her side, she's not going to manage to get a better hit, so she lies still and flat against her perch.  
  
"I have your knives," he singsongs.  
  
"You're lying," she breathes. Even if he's not, she's not taking the bait.  
  
"Come on. Let's team up and kill Taffet together. She's such a jerk, isn't she? I know where she is. I know she's a terrible fighter.  _Come on_!"  
  
She shakes her head, for the cameras and for herself.  
  
As the anthem plays overhead, she slinks away and heads back for the grove, where she finds a place to sleep like the one from the first night in the arena.

 

* * *

  
  
Day 22  
  
The thundering of the herd in the morning is almost comforting, and if not for the fact that she's missing a boot, she'd think it's only been a few days since this nightmare began. But no, there are four tributes left, and only one of them can live. She stashes her backpack in the cavern from her first week in the arena. It's intact from when she last saw it, the stream still dried up. Since no one else has been here, it's as safe as it gets.  
  
Morning on the west side of the arena is cool. Temperance takes the time to spray her foot, rest, and plan what to do next.  
  
In the grove, the animals can be her weapons. The herd runs by every morning like clockwork, and there's at least one mountain lion roaming around in the afternoons. The northern mountains are full of pits and traps, and the eastern ones are desolate. She hasn't explored them much, but she can manage there if she has to. The hills to the south are too alluring to hold anything but certain death, and the open field in the middle of the arena likely hides any number of dangers. Pelant is smart enough to stay where he's familiar with the environment, but Heather might fall for the chance to taunt an opponent. Girl 1 is the only unknown, but by now she's as paranoid and tired as the rest of them.  
  
Temperance talks her plans out as if Booth were sitting in the cavern with her. He promised her he's on her side, so this is how she lets him in on her thoughts. She pictures Russ there with them, and Angela, and Sully, like when they used to spend time together after school. Maybe she's starting to lose her mind under the stress, but it calms her down to pretend she's surrounded by people who love her.  
  
"I'll be home soon," she says as she rubs her foot. The break has healed by now, as well as it can. "Wait for me."

 

* * *

  
  
It's a fifty-fifty chance whether Pelant has told Heather their plan failed. On the one hand, they stand a better chance against Temperance if they work together. On the other, if he keeps the knowledge to himself, Heather could end up walking right to her death. Not banking on either of those possibilities, Temperance keeps low on the mountainside, determined to see the edge of the desert firsthand.  
  
The mountain lions appear in mid-afternoon, and she thinks she was wrong to call them  _mountain_  lions. They're big cats who seem to live in the desert, traveling into the grove when the heat of the day becomes too much. The added benefit is the abundance of prey amid the greener land.  
  
Now the question is, where are the people she's hunting?  
  
In response, she hears the quiet grind of rubber sole against small rocks and big stone. She turns and sees Heather several yards up the mountain from her, arm swinging downward as she throws a knife. Temperance ducks, and the knife zooms past to bounce off the slab of rock in front of her.  
  
She grabs the nearest small stone and throws it up in one swift motion. It won't hit its target, but Heather will have to dodge. In the few seconds that gives her, Temperance grabs the knife meant to injure her and rolls on the ground, pressing her back against the upward sloping mountainside.  
  
"How the hell did you manage to get out!?" Heather yells down, as Temperance turns and crawls up the incline on her stomach, just out of sight. "I'm not killing you until you tell me, so unless you want a slow, painful death, spit it out already!"  
  
Another knife whizzes past her, catching her in the shoulder. It's barely more than a scratch, but it stings in the gusting wind coming up off the desert. Flattening herself against another rock, Temperance stares out at the desert and sees a desert lion watching them. She knows from prior Games that predators like to go for weak prey. If it waits for either her or Heather to be too injured to move, it'll have an easy meal.  
  
She will not be that meal.  
  
She grabs a rock, crawls east as far as she can, and makes a blind throw upwards. Immediately she darts back and picks up the knife that cut her earlier, then goes east again for her new prize, a knife Heather threw in return for the rock from moments ago. She has four knives to Heather's seven remaining in the set, overall unfavorable odds except for the training Temperance did before the Games began.  
  
Up above, Heather gives an angry groan and throws a rock down. It shatters on impact, spraying Temperance with pebbles and dust. It also leaves a clear mark on the rock, and from it Temperance estimates where Heather is standing.  
  
Glancing over her shoulder, Temperance sees Heather's hair over the edge of her shelter. She ducks as another knife comes her way, counts to three, then gets up and throws one back.  
  
She's got the new knife in her hand when Heather cries out, and she takes a chance and glances up to see where she got her enemy. Right arm. Dominant arm.  
  
Good.  
  
Temperance climbs up to the next closest rock cover, peeks out again, and counts to five before attacking again. This time she aims lower, and the knife sticks into the side of Heather's shin.  
  
Her advantage won't last long, so Temperance presses forward and upward, closing the distance between them. Heather throws the bloodied knives down the mountain and flings a clean one at Temperance, but with her off hand, her aim is terrible.  
  
It's almost sad at this point how easy it is to gain higher ground and sink a knife in her shoulder. It would be kinder to aim for her throat, but Temperance doesn't want to chance missing and losing a weapon. As she is now, Heather can barely stand, and any attempt to fight back with her bare hands will send pain through her. It's hard enough to pull the knife out of her shoulder. She barely manages it, crying out the entire time. She throws that one down the mountain too, the blood on it staining every surface it bounces off.  
  
" _How did you get out!_ " she cries, setting her hand on the wound on her shoulder. "How the  _fuck_  did you manage to get out of there! Are you even  _human_? You  _mutt_!"  
  
"Stop screaming," Temperance hisses. "There are predators out there waiting to—"  
  
" _How did you do it_ , Three? Did you and that loser plan this all along?"  
  
Defiant, Temperance shakes her head. Heather screams in rage and starts up the mountain, but it's all in vain. Her injured leg can't bear her weight, and she doesn't have enough arm strength left to hold on. She slips, loses her balance when she tries to stand, and falls backward down the mountain, stopping when she lands hard against a rock.  
  
The lion in the desert is close enough now that it'll be here to collect its easy prey within seconds, so Temperance flees, not once stopping to look back at the girl getting eaten alive, not even when she's long out of sight and the cannon booms to announce her death.

 

* * *

 

Day 23  
  
The cannon goes off in the middle of the night, waking her from a light sleep beneath a blanket of pine needles, and Girl 1’s face appears in the sky. That means they're down to the final two. That means she's almost home.  
  
Temperance gets up and in the embers of her fire, sees the stream in the cavern has started flowing again, only faster and deeper than before. It's hard to tell in the almost total darkness, but it sounds like the water is getting louder. She stands where she is and listens for a while longer, and then the frigid water touches the toes of her naked foot.  
  
Immediately, she grabs her backpack and leaves the cavern, not bothering to close it shut. Odds are, she won't spend another night here, whether she wins or loses.  
  
The Gamemakers have provided them with a full moon to see by, but the night-dark grove is still eerie to be in. She heads out toward the edge of the arena, staying close to any tree she comes across for the slim cover they offer. If the Gamemakers haven't steered her away with traps by now, that means Pelant must be nearby and the final showdown is imminent. With only two knives and three small bone spears left, every move she makes will count.  
  
A thunderous rumbling comes from behind her, but it isn't like the herd. There's slamming, thudding, cracking—a rockslide. So the Gamemakers want the last two tributes to fight here, where the action will be tense. There are places to hide, trees to climb, and twigs to snap to blow their cover. Every sound echoes down from the thin canopy of pine branches and needles overhead.  
  
She takes a knife in each hand and turns to face the mountain.  
  
The rockslide stops in under a minute, and no cannon sounds. Pelant must know what this means, so she keeps moving slowly back, glancing left and right and over her shoulder, alert for any sign of where he might be. The thing about the silence is that even the whistle of a projectile through the air becomes loud, so she hears it coming for her, but without knowing where it's coming from, all she can do is duck.  
  
The bone spear pierces the trunk of the tree beside her, its shaft pointing to where he stood when he aimed for her. He won't be there by now, so she runs in that direction. Even in the dim light, she should be able to see where he has run to. More than that, the spear is probably his only throwing weapon. He can throw the hammer, but his accuracy won't be as good as hers is with knives.  
  
They spend what feels like forever circling each other in the grove. The moon creeps down the sky, throwing their battlefield into deeper shadows. She stays crouched low and follows his trail as quickly as she can, but he keeps evading, evading, waiting for sunrise. Knowing the Gamemakers, it won't come until they're both bloody and exhausted.  
  
When the moon is almost out of the sky, he comes up from behind her, and she whirls out of the way of his hammer. It hits the ground with a thud, and the takes her opening to slash at his thigh.  
  
As he cries out, reeling from the pain, she pulls a bone spear out of her now mostly empty backpack and flings it at him. She knows she hits him because he curses at her, but she also knows she's given him a weapon, so she weaves her way south through the trees.  
  
Despite his injuries, he somehow manages to be stealthy, and in a moment of tense focus where she thinks she heard him, he lands a hit with the spear. It sinks into her upper arm on her off side, but it  _hurts_. She yanks it out of her arm and strikes a tree with it, snapping the spear shaft so it's useless.  
  
He charges at her, seeing an opening when she rolls up her sleeve to put pressure on the wound. The wound from the small spear is nothing compared to the pain of breaking a bone, so she has her wits about her and twists out of his way. With the momentum from her turn, she flings the last throwing knife at him and gets him in the back.  
  
He makes a few failed attempts to pull out the knife, and she can practically hear Booth and Caroline telling her that this is her chance, that she can kill him right now and be done with this nightmare. She starts towards him slowly, watching him struggle, the so-called lizard part of her brain relishing in an almost certain victory.  
  
But then she stops, not two yards away from him. She can't do this. She's not like him.  
  
That moment of hesitation is all the time he needs to finally get the knife out of his back. He turns to face her, eyes wild, bloody knife gripped tight in one hand and hammer in the other.  
  
"You should've killed me when you had the chance," he growls. "But if you  _want_  to die, I'll do you the favor of killing you!"  
  
_Do you?  
  
Do I what?  
  
Want to die.  
  
Everyone dies eventua—  
  
In the arena, Bones.  
  
No._  
  
She moves out of Pelant's way, circling the nearest tree. He's in so much pain and losing so much blood through his mouth and the wound in his back that he's slow to react.  
  
She almost doesn't hear the familiar thudding as he gives a battle cry and swings at her again, but it does register. The herd, like clockwork.  
  
"Stop!" she tells him. " _Run_ , there's—" Another attempted strike, which she evades easily. "There's a stampede coming!"  
  
But he's past understanding, and as he comes for her again, she turns and runs northward.  
  
The tree that had helped her climb to her first night's bed is gone now, blasted in that thunderstorm from so long ago, leaving her with no easy escape. She needs to get up off the ground, or else she'll be trampled by the powerful herd. And adding to the danger, Pelant crashes his way through the grove towards her, another, more imminent threat.  
  
The knife that saved her from the stone pit grave saves her again now. She stabs it deep into the nearest tree trunk and pulls herself up in time to be out of range of Pelant's swing. He hits the tree as she grabs the lowest branch. He throws the hammer, and she draws up her legs as she hangs from the branch, the tool's metal head skimming her one boot. She pulls herself up, and he throws the knife that injured him, which catches her backpack but does no damage to her.  
  
" _Run_!" she screams at him, but by now the herd drowns out her cry. Temperance watches her last opponent look behind him in wide-eyed terror, then shuts her eyes as the herd overcomes him.  
  
She doesn't hear him scream, doesn't hear his bones crack under the mighty hooves, doesn't hear anything but the pounding of the stampede as it passes and fades away to the north. She clings to the tree trunk with all her might, even when the cannon booms to confirm his death.  
  
_"Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this year's Hunger Games! Temperance Brennan, from District Three!"_


	3. After

* * *

 

Her dress for the victory interview has enough padding to make her look like she used to before those three and a half weeks in the arena took their toll on her. Makeup fills in the hollow spaces in her cheeks and around her eyes. She stares at her reflection and thinks she looks beautiful, but when she shuts her eyes, she remembers spraying medicine on her side and being able to see her ribs without even stretching. Even now, her shoulders are bony beneath the gauzy fabric of the straps of her dress, her knees knobby under her long skirt.  
  
But she's healthy enough after a long stay in the hospital to sit for her interview, so the ceremonies continue as scheduled.  
  
"You ready, _cherie_?"  
  
Temperance turns to face Caroline, who stands in the bedroom doorway. "Yes." She pauses, looking past Caroline and into the hall. "Where's Booth?"  
  
Caroline gives her a flat look, but it's more tired than anything. "Just outside. Didn't want to walk in on you half dressed or something." She snickers, shakes her head almost fondly, then narrows her eyes. "Are you two...?"  
  
"Something." Temperance feels her face go red. "Is that bad? Should I pretend we're not?"  
  
"Too late for that now. With the way you talked to him in the arena, how he talked you up to sponsors, and that reunion of yours when you got released from the hospital, it's an open secret."  
  
"Oh." Temperance looks down at her shoes, a pair of off white sandals with the slightest heel. Comfortable, easy to walk in. She supposes the "open secret" is fine for the two of them, since it looks and is mutual, but what will it mean for them going forward, as victors and future mentors? How does she formulate this question clearly enough that her reservations come through when she asks it?  
  
"It's not a bad thing, _cherie_ ," says Caroline, and when Temperance meets her gaze, the older mentor is giving a small, gentle smile. "Trust me. Now come on, let's get you out there."  
  
Caroline's victory was twenty years ago. If anyone knows what is or isn't bad in the context of a victor's life, it's her.  
  
Nodding, Temperance follows her into the hall. As promised, there's Booth, relief still bright in his eyes when he looks at her. She walks up to him and hooks an arm around his. That's how they leave the suite and arrive behind the scenes. Ideally, he'd be allowed to sit with her during the interview, but she knows not to ask. It won't happen anyway, and it doesn't matter. Once it's over, they'll be on their way home together.

 

* * *

  
  
The heavily edited replay of the Games makes her look like a master tactician struggling to outsmart equally clever opponents. It's wrong. She mostly improvised her way through those long, difficult weeks, benefiting from the others' plans as much as her own. But if they want to make her out to be cold, intelligent, and deadly, who is she to argue?  
  
"Are you good at chess, Temperance?" Caesar asks when the replay is over.  
  
"I've played before, a few times," she answers, voice even and hollow in the wake of reliving the nightmare that was the arena. "I'm... not bad. I've won most of the games I played, but that's not enough to say whether I'm good or bad."  
  
He gestures to her and looks at the audience. "See? _See_? This is the mind of a winner! Never overestimate your own strengths! Isn't that right?"  
  
She nods, and when he meets her gaze again, she sees he is clearly expecting a verbal response. "Yes."  
  
There's a round of applause. It makes her want to take cover behind the ornate chair she's sitting on, as if the next thing to happen will be the audience running towards her, a stampede of people.  
  
Caesar rescues her by bringing up the times in the arena when she looked to the artificial sky and talked to Booth.  
  
"Your mentor, right?"  
  
"One of them."  
  
"The one you were closest to."  
  
She hesitates. A few people in the crowd gasp audibly with delight.  
  
"Yes. He and my brother used to be friends."  
  
"Your older brother's friend," Caesar says. "A victor you'd known for years. It's no wonder you formed such a strong connection in the week before the Games."  
  
She hesitates again. Apparently, that was his goal, because he shoots her a knowing smile as he nods to prompt her for a response.  
  
"Yes." She looks at her shoes, then at him again. "He believed in me. That's how I knew I could win."  
  
"Beautiful," Caesar remarks. "Beautiful! A bond forged in the flames of the Games, and strengthened by your victory!"  
  
The crowd erupts into cheers at his prompting, continuing through when he kisses the back of her hand and ends the interview. The camera follows her offstage and stays on her as she walks up to Booth and into his arms. She doesn't do it for show, though. She does it for the two of them, and for herself, staying like this until the broadcast ends and they're back in the suite.

 

* * *

  
  
"It sounds like a stampede," Temperance says, clutching at Booth's shirt as she pulls up against him, tense and agitated. "It feels like when there's a stampede."  
  
It's late at night as the train exits the Capitol. They'll be back in District Three by morning.  
  
He tugs her closer, arms tight around her. "There won't be any stampedes while I'm here with you."  
  
Shivering, she shifts her head against him. Her ear rests near his heart. The steady rhythm of its beating draws her out of the memory of the herd in the morning, the last thing she witnessed in the arena, and helps her manage an unrestful night of sleep.  
  
Late morning sees them arrive at the train station. Cameras capture their return, Caroline scowling at the pomp and circumstance while Temperance forces herself to stand tall and by herself at center stage for longer than a few seconds. Then there's the reunion with her family, dad and brother and victor holding each other tight, and finally the trek to Victors Village, the big house with all its luxuries, a small prize for surviving what she did.  
  
When the cameras are gone and the remainder of the crowd has dispersed, Angela stays behind for a hug.  
  
"I missed you so much," she says, not bothering to hide the way her voice cracks as she speaks.  
  
Temperance hugs her as hard as she can, feeling impossibly, dangerously thin in her best friend's arms. "I thought of you in the arena," she confesses, her vision blurring. "I talked to you."  
  
"I know. But it's over now. You're home. I'll cook you something for dinner tonight if you want."  
  
"Stay over. Come over any time you want." Temperance pulls away and takes her hands. "Please."  
  
"Of course I will, sweetie." Angela gives her hands a squeeze. "I've gotta go, I'm on my lunch break. But I'll be back, I promise."  
  
Sniffling, Temperance nods, letting go of her friend and watching her head back into town.

 

* * *

  
  
In the evening, Russ leaves Victors Village to stay with his fiancée and her kids, two little girls who've come to love him like he's always been part of their family.  
  
Temperance watches him go, her father at her side with a hand on her back, warm and steady. She feels like she did that first night after her mother's death, small and frail and afraid of every little thing.  
  
Max can see it, always has. "I'm staying right here with you, Tempe. Right here."  
  
That night, she sleeps in her dad's arms.

 

* * *

  
  
Max leaves early the next morning to teach at the school. The house is quiet without him, too empty; Temperance's footsteps echo in it like in the cavern in the arena.  
  
She peers out one of the front windows and spots Booth walking down the street, hands in the pockets of a jacket that looks warm and soft. Without even stopping to think about it, she heads out to meet him, leaving her front door unlocked. No one will steal from her, and if they do, she can replace everything easily. She can afford it.  
  
"Booth," she calls as she comes up beside him. The chilly morning air heralds an early fall.  
  
He smiles even before he looks at her. It's like late spring sunshine. "Hey, Bones."  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"The business sector." He nods in its general direction. "The bakery for coffee and breakfast."  
  
"That sounds nice." She pauses, smiles a little. "Would you like some company?"  
  
In response, he slides an arm around her shoulders, pulling her up against him. "You don't have to ask."  
  
She smiles wider; the fabric of his jacket is even softer than she imagined.

 

* * *

  
  
The food in the district shops isn't as decadent as what she got to eat in the Capitol, but it's better for having been made with what's available. Fall brings out warm, savory-sweet flavors, tangy-sweet drinks, spices with subtle heat to them. Temperance finds it easy to smile at the shopkeepers and their staff, think it's only right to leave a few extra coins at the table when she and Booth leave to explore another shop.  
  
He buys a new pair of socks; she buys mittens for the girls who will be her nieces. He talks to the tailor; she lets them measure her for a skirt. He hands a few coins to a worker leaving the factory; she asks if there's anyone he  _doesn't_  know.  
  
"Most people," he answers, expression going somber. "But everyone knows us. You don't really get used to that."  
  
Caroline seems used to it, Temperance almost says, but maybe that's just part of the older victor's image. Bored, cynical, above it all.  
  
Not like Temperance.  
  
"I'd like to meet the coroner," she says, adjusting her hold on his arm so he knows she's still there. "Do you know him?"  
  
"Yeah," he says, relaxing a little. "You already know his apprentice." When he catches sight of her inquisitive frown, he snickers quietly. "Remember Cam?"  
  
"Oh." She widens her eyes a little. "Yes."  
  
Cam Saroyan, a girl Russ's age, first brought into their circle when she bandaged a gash he got when he'd tried to climb a rotting old tree on a dare. Beautiful, brilliant, and brave. She and Booth had dated for a short while, and even after ending it, they stayed friends.  
  
Then Booth got reaped. Won. Came back. Stayed in his house in Victors Village. Looked like he saw ghosts everywhere he went.  
  
"Nothing ever scared her," Temperance remarks. Except the reaping, but that goes unsaid, a fact of life in the districts.  
  
"Kinda like you," says Booth, and leads them down the street to the coroner's office.

 

* * *

  
  
Cam gives the two of them a smile that says  _congratulations_  and  _I'm sorry_  at the same time. It feels like the only correct response when faced with victors.  
  
"It's been a while," she tells Temperance by way of greeting. "I don't have much free time now that I'm apprenticed."  
  
"I know we weren't very close before, but my schedule is pretty open now, so if you ever want to just... catch up or spend time with me and Angela— you know where I live." This is her life now, Temperance thinks. She can do whatever she wants with her days. In time, she'll develop her talent. She has an idea of what she wants it to be.  
  
"I'd like that," says Cam, giving a small, wry grin. "I miss girl talk. And the two of you. It was hard to get close to people when you weren't sure you'd never see them again."  
  
"Yes." Temperance nods. "It was... hard enough, with family." No one is safe until they turn nineteen, and losing people you had spent your whole life with made seeking connections outside of that seem like looking for trouble.

"You and Angela are both here for the long haul," Cam tells her with a nod. Her smile is gone, but not the controlled compassion in her eyes.

"And Russ and Booth."

Cam smiles then, like Caroline did before Temperance's victory interview. "I'll stop by tomorrow."

With a promise to have tea ready, Temperance takes Booth’s arm, and they head off to let Cam work in peace.

 

* * *

  
  
"Is this how you spend your days?" Temperance asks when they're curled up together on the couch in Booth's house. "Going into town, then coming back here?"  
  
"The better days, yeah." He pauses, resting his cheek atop her head. "The worse ones— they're kind of a blur. I drink more than I should. Stay inside. Leave the lights on in every room. Try not to fall asleep."  
  
Setting a hand over his heart, she says softly, "That sounds terrible." She takes a deep breath. The house smells clean, and his clothes smell faintly of oak. "I'm... afraid of how my bad days will be."  
  
"Well, no matter how they are, you won't be alone. You have your dad, and you have your friends. You have me. You can come over whenever you feel you need to."  
  
"I— might." She frowns and shuts her eyes. "But I don't want the bad days to be the only reason I come over."  
  
"You're here now," he points out. "It's been a good day."  
  
"I mean—" Sighing, she opens her eyes a little but stays where she is, tucked against him, warm and content despite the chill creeping through her, a phantom sensation brought on by nerves. "In the suite, the night before the Games started— none of that was  _just_  because I was afraid. I... I meant it when I said I like that we have something that's ours."  
  
"I know," he says, stroking her hair. "You're a bad liar. That's not always a bad thing. It isn't now."  
  
"Right. And in fact, the arena— the  _fear_  made me brave." She pauses, lifting her head, looking up at him. Does he understand? Is she saying this clearly? "Brave enough to say the things I did. Brave enough to kiss you. That was  _my_  choice, not the Capitol's. It was... something else that could be just ours. But if you don't want that anymore, then that's—"  
  
"Bones," he says, pausing until she's still. "None of that, and nothing since the Games ended, has been an act. And it's not a binding agreement, either. It's ours and it's... amazing. It doesn't need to be anything else unless you want it to be."  
  
"Unless  _we_  want it to be," she corrects, and he nods and gives her the small grin she remembers from when they were all younger. When the shadow of the arena didn't hang over them both.  
  
"Right," he agrees.  
  
She presses her lips into a straight line, turning the words over in her head before she says them. Even though she knows he'll understand no matter what, she wants to be specific and clear. "When you stopped spending time with us— it was because of the arena, wasn't it. Because... it changes everything."  
  
"Yeah," he half says, half sighs. "I couldn't— I didn't want to be around you guys when all I had in me was anger. It wasn't anybody's fault." Breathing deep, he shrugs. "You'll see. Or maybe you won't. It's different for everyone. I still wouldn't have wished this on you."  
  
"But now you don't have to stay away from us. You can— reconnect with Russ and Sully if you want. And Angela and Cam."  
  
"Let's start small first," he says, leaning in a bit. "Let's start with you and me."  
  
Nodding, she smiles, and leans in to meet him in a slow, chaste kiss.


	4. Zack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Zack comes to join a certain group of victors from District Three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The face of self-loathing is lined with words typed on mobile devices.

The odds have never been in the Addys' favor. Big families are all but guaranteed to lose someone to the Games. Six of them have their names in the glass reaping ball the second year Temperance is a mentor, and one of the boys gets chosen.

Zachary is tall and slight, and as he walks up to take the stage, Temperance tries not to think about how far he'll make it on the first day before he's caught and killed. The fact that the family will have one less mouth to feed gives her no comfort. For all the extra work it would've forced them to do, she would give anything for her mother to be alive. Zachary may be one of eight children, but he will be missed. He is irreplaceable.

She mourns him before he makes it to the front of the crowd.

When the escort calls for volunteers, a hand shoots up and a voice calls out — one of the other Addy boys. Younger, with sharper gaze and more mass to him. He is celebrated for his bravery, applauded for the sacrifice he is making out of love; and Zachary visibly fights the urge to scream, shedding only a few tears before the tributes are ushered off for their goodbyes.

"It doesn't get easier," Caroline tells her as the train pulls out of the station. "You just learn to pretend it does."

 

* * *

 

This year's girl tribute lasts three days to the boy's one. Their remains are put in plain wooden coffins and shipped back home with the delegation from District Three.

"It's better when it's over for them quick," says Booth. "Not by much, but it's better, knowing they're not there anymore."

Temperance glances at him, sees there's not a trace of peace on his face, and takes his hand.

"Right," she says. She understands.

 

* * *

 

"Jack's friends with him," Angela tells Temperance as they walk with the small crowd making their way to the graveyard. "That's how I met him. He's a good kid. Weird at first, but once you get to know him, he's actually pretty nice. Smart, creative, curious -- he could be an inventor if he didn't have to work in the factory when he's out of school."

That sounds familiar, Temperance thinks, but she doesn't say so. She's keeping her eyes on the tributes' families, trying not to hate herself for surviving where their children didn't.

 

* * *

 

After the burial, those gathered begin to go back to their homes for another night of mandatory viewing. Booth makes to leave too, but Temperance doesn't budge. He stops when it's clear no amount of tugging will get her to follow.

"He's not going with his family," she says, staring at tall, thin, sad Zachary Addy.

"He wants to be alone with his brother," Booth says, voice heavy and low.

"His brother isn't there."

"It's— That doesn't really matter. I mean, when your mom died—"

"When my mother died, I didn't want to be home because I knew she wouldn't be there. I don't think he wants to be with his brother; I think he wants his brother to be with him, and that's not going to happen."

For all that the words sound harsh even to her, Temperance means the best. She knows that everyone's grief is unique, but she also knows that even a stranger's words can help a person heal. So without a glance back, she lets go of Booth's hand and walks to the boy who got reaped and replaced, stopping when she's close enough to speak without raising her voice.

"Zachary?" The boy doesn't respond, doesn't acknowledge her. "Staying here longer won't make going home any easier."

" _Bones,_ " hisses Booth, shooting her a sharp look.

None of this draws a response. She frowns, purses her lips, thinks back to anything that might shake from Zachary Addy the hold sorrow has on him. It comes to her in moments, like a flash of lightning.

" _Zack_."

The name his family calls him startles him, so familiar but from someone so distant. Everyone knows Temperance Brennan as Three's latest victor, but that's not much at all to most people. She's just another face to many, another sad girl in their world of misery.

"It was supposed to be me," says Zack. His voice is flat, but it trembles, and tears well in his eyes. "I'm eighteen. I'm no one. I should be the one dead. My brother—"

"Couldn't stand to live in a world without you," Temperance cuts him off. Russ told her once to never volunteer, because a world without his weird little sister wasn't one he wanted to live in.

"He was sixteen," says Zack. He frowns, and tears spill down his cheeks. "It doesn't make sense."

"I know." She reaches out and sets a hand on his shoulder, and she knows, right then, that she's going to watch over him. She's going to keep him safe in the ways she couldn't do for his brother.

She knows his sadness. She knows without him having to say it that he's dreamt he was in his brother's place, that he watched the Games every waking moment, barely ate, barely moved, as if he could live and die the way his brother did. She knows because it was hard for her, too, to sleep in a safe place and eat as much as she wanted while the tributes endured cold and fear and hunger every day and night in the arena.

"Come find me in Victors Village," she tells him, and when he meets her gaze, she nods. "Any time you want. I'll be there."

"Right," he murmurs.

She gives his shoulder a brief squeeze and heads back to Booth, taking his arm and beginning their walk back in silence.

"Y'know, for someone so clumsy with people," Booth tells her, "that was really well done, Bones."

"I said what I felt," she explains, shrugging. "I would've said it to anyone."

"You're better at that kind of thing than you think you are."

"Maybe. Just not as good as you."

He laughs, low and quiet, and leans into her for a moment. Then she rests her head against his shoulder and sets her gaze on the houses beyond the gate.

 

* * *

 

Zack does go visit her. It's barely a week after the burial, and it's the day of the victory interview for this year's winner, the boy from Five.

"I need to be away from my family when I watch the replay of when my brother died," he says, voice flat, face blank. "If it weren't required viewing, I would spend the day in the factory."

He is like her, Temperance thinks. He is so much like her that she wants to hold him close, as if she could tell him with a hug just how much she understands the urge to find a task to focus on while the worst of the pain passes.

"You can close your eyes," she tells him, leading him to the living room. "I'll tell you when that part is over."

"Thank you, but I owe it to him to watch."

They sit on the sofa while Max busies himself making a calming tea blend his late wife taught the family. The TV plays shots of the stage where the year's victor will sit for the interview.

"You don't have to if it'll be upsetting," says Temperance. Booth told her that last year, when the victor's tape featured a death she found especially cruel.

"He volunteered for me." Zack frowns, makes his hands into fists for a few seconds, letting the tension out of his fingers as he sighs. "I can't run away from the fact that he's dead because of me."

She bites back the words of comfort she wants to give him—that it wasn't his fault, or even the fault of the tribute who killed his brother—because for all the paranoia she feels now after having a month of her life broadcast on national television, the fact is that none of them is ever far from the Capitol's ears. It's _their_  fault twenty-three children die every year, but she won't say that. If he doesn't know it by now, he'll figure it out in time. He's like her, after all. He can figure anything out.

Max comes into the room with four teacups on a tray, and Booth follows, a flask in his hand. She's not sure when he came in, but like always, she's glad he did.

She stays at Zack's side as the interview begins, and when his brother's demise is shown onscreen, she takes his hand and squeezes it tight. She feels it, too, the ache of losing him, because he was in her care while the Games were on.

"I'm sorry," she says, voice soft as a summer breeze. She is sorry for his loss and for her part in it, sorry that they're all servants of to cruel master, sorry that this is what they'll have to bear for the rest of their lives.

Zack grips her fingers in his; out of the corner of her eye, she sees him give a slight nod.

He'll be okay, she thinks. As long as they stick together, they'll all be okay.


	5. Risks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The risks two victors take for love. (AKA the one with some more sad background and some lowkey smut.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You take your life into your own hands when you type on something as imprecise as a touchscreen and don't back up your work. D: I hope you enjoy what I lost a chunk of and had to recreate.

* * *

 

Fear is a powerful deterrent, but even the promise of seven years of the threat of almost certan death awaiting district children and their parents is not enough to stop people from living the way they want. Families pass on secret recipes for teas to end an unwanted pregnancy, and bitter syrups to ingest after a tryst, just in case. Temperance always wondered why people bothered at all when abstaining is the only card they have to play to try and have some control over their lives when the Capitol dictates their careers and modes of living.

Emotions are tricky, though; and when they intermingle with things that are part and parcel of life for so many—a shared glance across the room speeding her heart rate, a person's mere presence in a room making her smile—she comes to understand, and starts to hope that the fear will keep her steadfast in her plan to defy in the only way she can.

Of course, it doesn't. No amount of horror stories or worst-case-scenarios is enough to stop her risking her life on something special and real with someone she may not see forever with (forever is impossible until you turn nineteen, and even then, nothing is certain) but finds safety in, comfort. Once that bridge has been crossed the first time, it's harder, less imperative to deny themselves again.

Sully is her shelter until the year he turns eighteen, the year Jared Booth's name is pulled from the glass reaping ball, the year Seeley Booth takes his place, the year Boy Three teams up with Boy Two and learns that some people have come to take joy in killing, a way to survive in a system designed to crush them. The revelation hurts in ways nothing else has since her mother died. Russ comes home angry in the evenings. Jared stops coming over. Sully holds Temperance with no expectation of more when she tells him she can't be with him like before.

"I'm still here for you," he tells her one evening. "You'll always have me, and Russ, and your dad."

 _And Booth,_  she thinks, but she doesn't dare say it while the Games are still on and his fate is still uncertain. Instead, she nods and murmurs her thanks, her gaze on the live footage on TV, where the Gamemakers unleash a flash flood to shake things up for the five remaining tributes.

 

* * *

 

After her victory, Temperance thinks she'll feel nothing but dread for the rest of her life, with only fleeting moments of happiness offering respite from the world, points of light in the dark, stars in the night sky. The Victory Tour looms on the horizon, and nightmares plague her whether she spends the night in her house or Booth's.

But it's better this way, she thinks, because all too often, a victor's child ends up being reaped. Enough tragedy has befallen them, and maybe it's best if she never feels the need at all. Whether Booth does or doesn't, he doesn't push, only stays at her side, partner and protector both.

It's only after the Victory Tour that things change. The shock of seeing the fallen tributes' families fades away, and Temperance starts to feel alive again, little by little, day by day; dares more, night by night. There's a new ache in her chest now when she lies curled up at Booth's side, warm and frightening all at once, wild hope—like when she looks at the mountains on the horizon and wonders what it would be like to run away and live in the wilderness, free at last—and just as dangerous as she imagines that same what-if to be.

"I don't understand why I'm so scared," she tells him, head on his shoulder, hand on his chest. It helps her to talk about it, to lay out what she knows and see where the pieces of the puzzle lead her. "I know how to… handle it—the worst-case scenario." Is that subtle enough? Clear enough? She's not sure. "But I can't—"

"Am I making you feel that way?"

"What? No. No, of course not."

"Because if I am, I need you to tell me. I don't want to make you feel pressured or—"

"No, Booth. It's not you. I'm sure of that." She sighs, shutting her eyes for a moment. "Which means it must be me. I'm the one… causing this. Creating scenarios where everything goes right, only to think of how they can be ruined, and so convince myself not to take any action."

"That makes sense," he says after a few seconds of thought.

"It does?"

"Yeah. It's easier to be afraid than to face what scares you. It's easier not to put yourself in a situation where you have to face it."

She frowns. "It's easier not to volunteer for the Games."

"Right."

"You did it anyway."

Whether he's aware of it or not, his hold on her tightens then. "Yeah."

"Losing your brother was more frightening than the prospect of dying."

"I knew I stood a better chance of winning than he did. He likes being the center of attention. I don't. It would've gotten him killed."

"You took a huge risk."

He nods and looks down at her. "It paid off. I'm alive. I was there to get you sponsors."

"A _huge risk._ "

"You don't have to take risks with me, Bones. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"I want to." She makes the briefest pause, breathing deep as fear twists in her chest. "That's why I'm so afraid. I want to, even though the risk is enormous."

They both stay silent for a while, listening to each other's breathing, comforted by the steady warmth of being together—and thinking, always thinking. Temperance couldn't stop thinking if she tried, much less now when it feels like time is an hourglass and she's trapped in its bottom half, grains of sand trickling down on her in a slow, easy effort to drown her.

"I want to," she says softly, squeezing her eyes shut for a count of three. "Just… not yet. Not for a while."

"Okay," he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead—and she bites her lip, because that sweet, simple act pushes back the fear like a candle in the night. "That's that."

"No, it's not."

He pulls back, and she lifts herself up, propped on one arm. In the dim glow of the light from the hall leaking in through the half-open door, she sees his eyes widen, and the twisting feeling in her chest becomes a tug of want.

"There are less risky things that we can do. I'm not afraid of those."

He shifts, swallows against what must be dryness in his throat, lifts a hand to touch her cheek as if asking permission. She leans into the familiar warmth of his palm, and when he rises up off the bed, she meets him halfway in a kiss that's deep at once.

She's not in the mood to drag this out; without fear to stop her, she's free. She dares, tugging at his shirt as she nips at his bottom lip, breaking apart long enough for both their shirts to come off and be tossed aside. She dares, dragging her nails across his skin, careful not to scratch but hard enough that he knows where to linger as he kisses her neck. She dares, lying back as he traces with his mouth the path he’s long since memorized with his hands, down her chest and lower still.

She dares, and she defies, touching his cheek to reassure him when he pauses, gazes locked together as he undresses her. Fear wells up in her throat, sudden and swift; she pushes against it, sliding a hand in his close-cut hair and leaning her head back in a show of trust and a signal to keep going.

And he does. The moment his tongue touches her, she shivers, gasping with delight. The fear vanishes, and she lets go of every thought but this, them, glad the house is empty save the two of them so no one can hear the sounds he draws from her with his mouth alone, and later, she of him with hers.

"I love you," she says to him, draped over his chest, face half hidden in the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, still breathless and weak, tired and content. There's not a doubt in her mind about the statement. "Whatever happens, I love you."

"I love you, too," he says to her, making lazy strokes against her skin with his thumb, sincere and gentle like he never will be for the cameras. "Whatever the risk, I love you."

For the first time in her life, she is not afraid as she faces the odds, because they face them together.


	6. Sweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny boy defies the odds and joins the family of friends and relatives in a small part of Victors Village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The irony here is that Sweets survives the Hunger Games but dies in canon.

* * *

 

Her first eleven-year-old tribute gets reaped a few years after she opens her house to Zack, and one year after she began asking people in the Capitol to call her by her last name. She hasn’t gotten used to this mentoring business by any means, but she knows the routine by now, knows better how to court sponsors and when to stand alone or hide beside another mentor from District Three.

“Sweets,” Caroline says to the boy, on the train, after the girl tribute has gone to bed. The boy keeps hovering nearby the mentors, a little bird looking for shelter.

Brennan wants to hide him away for no one to find.

“Are you anything at all like your name?” asks Caroline.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Then act like it,” Caroline tells him. “Be however you really are on the inside, but act sweet wherever there are cameras.” She looks over her shoulder at Brennan and Booth, eyebrows arched and stare flat as an empty dinner table. “There’s his strategy. We’ll come up with something Shaw tomorrow.”

Sweets looks at each of his mentors in turn before he goes to his room, the click of the door’s lock barely heard over the sound of the train’s motion.

 

* * *

 

Booth sighs heavily when the elevator door shuts on the tributes as they head off to their first day of training.

“If they scored tributes on how annoying they are, Sweets would get a twelve,” he says.

“So send him away when you find him annoying.” Brennan takes his hand as they wait for another elevator. They have their own game to play while the twenty-four tributes train. “Tell him he should spend his free time building his strength or practicing a skill. That’s what I did.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Neither can I.”

“So why’d y—”

“I was just giving you options to solve a problem with.” The elevator arrives, and she starts for it first, tugging gently on his hand. “It’ll help him prepare.” She doesn’t say, _It’ll give him a better chance to survive._  

“I don’t think he’ll ever be prepared for the arena,” Booth murmurs. “Maybe the best thing for him is to get killed in the bloodbath.”

“I bet there were people who said that about me.”

“No, you always looked like you stood a chance. And you were eighteen. Sweets is _eleven_ , for god’s sake.”

“He’s scared, Booth.” The elevator opens into the lobby. From here, it’s a short walk to the gathering reserved for victors, escorts, and the city’s elites. “He’s so, so scared. You’re… an ideal to him, I think. Older, taller, obviously stronger.”

“It’s not like I’m going into the arena with him.” 

“He spends time with you while he still can. Like I did.”

Within view of their destination, he stops and faces her. After all this time, Brennan still finds him breathtaking. 

“You want him to win,” he says, like he knows it’s true.

Forcing herself to breathe deep, she nods. “I want him to win. I know I shouldn’t, but I want him to win.”

Gently, he pulls his hand out of hers and puts his fingers under her chin, tilting her head back so their eyes meet, so she can’t look away. 

They’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk in the city center, but it feels like they’re all alone. 

“So do I,” he says, so only she can hear. “I hate when they pick kids that young to go fight.”

“Shaw doesn’t deserve to die, though. I feel badly about wanting Sweets to win, because it means she has to die.”

“Who knows? Anything could happen.” He pulls back his hand, setting it on her upper arm, a steadying gesture if she’s ever felt one. “But we can’t show anyone that yet, all right?” 

“All right.” She sighs, and the world around them comes back into focus. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Training scores are announced, and it’s all Brennan can do to keep the sorrow off her face. Against Booth’s advice and her own better judgment, she’s grown attached to Sweets; and even though he won’t admit it, so has Booth. 

“We should see him off before he leaves for the arena,” Booth tells her on the night before the Games begin, as she stretches out alongside him under the luxurious bed sheets they get in the suite. “The support’ll probably help him.”

“I think so, too,” she says. “It helped me.” Surely it’ll help such a young boy, one who hasn’t even begun to leave behind the soft features of childhood.

After some time spent in silence—her eyelids growing heavier by the second, sleep ready to overcome her despite the tension in her whole body, mourning twenty-three kids before they’re killed for show—Booth speaks, voice low and rough, exhausted and sad. 

“He’s gonna be annoying if he wins.” 

She quirks her lips in a small smile. “Mostly to you.” 

He snickers, thumb stroking her arm along the hem of her shirtsleeve. “I already have a little brother. I thought that phase was over for good.”

“People might finally get to see another side of you,” she goes on, as if he hadn’t said a word. “Not just the sullen, angry victor—” 

“Hey, we already got that covered. You and me, we’re inseparable.”

“Seeley Booth can be gentle, too.”

“Everybody knows that already, because of you! _You_ soften my image, Bones.”

“He’s kind to children. Who would’ve imagined?”

“Bones, _come on,_ you’re killing me.”

She couldn’t go on if she wanted to, dissolving into hushed laughter that he gets dragged into soon enough. It’s too brief a respite, but it lulls them to sleep before the fact of where they are and why can come and shake them again.

 

* * *

 

He wins. 

Against all odds, Boy Three, eleven years old, is the last tribute standing.

Lance Sweets wins the Games. 

The vast marsh that was this year’s arena swallowed temporary shelters whole and hid all manner of mutts and poisonous plants amid gifts and promising bushes. Sweets foraged well because he’s so small, but his true advantage had been his mind. He’d lied, he’d feigned weakness, and he’d fought dirty when he had to.

He’d taken Caroline’s advice on the train to heart, and he’d made it out alive despite everything his thirty-two days in the arena had thrown at him. 

During his victory interview, he’s quiet. The audience all but coos at him, and Caesar tells him he’s aptly named. 

“Wherever they are, I bet your parents are proud of you, Lance,” says Caesar.

Sweets doesn’t budge until it’s time to go to the suite for one last night of opulent furnishings and sumptuous dining.

“Hey,” says Booth, lightly clapping a hand on Sweets’s shoulder. “This’ll be over soon. You’ll be old news before you know it.” 

Sweets nods and takes his seat at the dining table. 

Brennan touches his back as she passes him, a fleeting brush of her fingertips on his shirt. 

“You aren’t alone anymore,” she tells him, and sits across from him. 

“Okay,” he says, looking down at his plate. 

It’s the first thing he’s said all day. She takes that as a good thing.

 

* * *

 

He’s so small that the residents of Victors Village find it hard to send him to his big house to be all alone. Out of all of them, though, it’s Booth he stays with most. He sleeps downstairs, on the sofa, hugging a couch pillow the way he clutched his backpack when he slept in the arena.

“He won’t go outside by himself,” Booth says one day when he’s feeling social enough to visit with old and new friends.

Brennan likes times like this; for minutes at a time, she can forget that the arena was real. 

“I don’t blame him,” says Cam. “The things he went through, what he saw—” She pauses, visibly shuddering. “It’s one of the worst Games in the last decade.” 

“He can’t stay scared forever,” Brennan says, but it’s not a criticism or a complaint. What she wants is to see him start to live again, because that is his one card to play in what his life has become. He isn’t like her, though. She can’t help him the way she helps Zack. And Booth might be willing to stand between Sweets and certain death, but fear is intangible, and physical strength means nothing when facing it down. 

He can’t stay scared forever, but coming out from under it is different for everyone, just like Booth told her when she first came back home. 

“I think I can help,” says Angela. All at once, the group looks at her. She doesn’t balk at the attention, too used to it in the classroom, even though this is a much different subject. “Sometimes, I draw my nightmares, and when I’m done, I go outside and burn them. I dunno, maybe that’ll help him feel like he can control some of what bothers him.”

They all nod or murmur their agreement.

When they go to part ways, Brennan gives in to impulse and hugs her tight.

“Thank you,” she says in the moments before she pulls back. Angela’s smile warms her heart and calms her mind.

“I just want to help,” Angela responds, shrugging. “It’s the least I can do.”

 

* * *

 

A few weeks of art and fire with Angela later, Sweets takes up a talent: music, as rich and touching as spoken language.

Victors Village takes on new life.

 

* * *

 

When they’re back from Sweets’s Victory Tour, a small girl turns up at his door, a single flower in hand.

“A daisy,” he says as he takes it. “I… Thanks.”

“So you’ll remember my name,” she says. “Daisy. I’ll be your friend.”

She’s ten, too young for the reaping, far too young to hope for a long life. Sweets’s friends fear for her every year because, despite the uncertainty she faces, he grows more attached every time she comes to visit.

On her nineteenth birthday, they don’t throw a party, but there’s no end to the laughter and smiles they share. She’s part of their family now, safe from the worst fate any of them can think of.

For the first time in years, they know a sliver of peace.


End file.
